In the base, Anko weaved through hand seals for the Summoning Jutsu and slapped her palm on the ground, which spurred the jutsu formula (shiki) using her blood as a component. A writhing snake emerged within the hazy cloud of smoke.

Both Gaku and Kameko were standing behind sheet metal tables, looking combat-ready when they spotted the thick forest-green snake despite it being Anko’s summon. Takuma stood beside Anko, ready to spring into action like the other two.

“You guys are being rude; Mara is a friend. He won’t harm you,” said Anko. She was disappointed seeing them acting like they were.

“I wouldn’t take her word for it,” said Mara, his yellow-slitted eyes scanning the three. “A snake’s got to eat, after all.”

Gaku had crossed his arms as he kept his eyes on Mara and Kameko gripped the hilt of her sword tightly.

“Mara, stop it!” Anko raised her voice, but the shallow smile on her face told another story.

The snake looked up at Takuma, who was staring down at him. He uncoiled and raised his body until his head was at Takuma’s chest. The distance between them wasn’t more than a few feet, practically nothing for a snake of Mara’s enhanced physique.

“You look easy to swallow,” said Mara.

“And you have hundreds of more bones than a human I could break,” Takuma replied.

Mara moved his head closer to Takuma, who didn’t move much less flinch. They stared at each other for a long, silent moment. Anko, standing beside Takuma, shook her head; she was used to Mara’s antics when meeting strangers.

“I like him,” Mara said to Anko after backing away.

“Do you have the posters?” asked Anko.

“I have a scroll, but I don’t know what’s inside,” said Mara. He opened his mouth and spat out a scroll tube right toward Anko, who was forced to catch it with her bare hands. She groaned in disgust at the long strands of saliva dangling from her finger and uncorked the tube. She glanced up at Mara with a fed-up sigh and dumped the scroll within the tube into Takuma’s hands. Unexpectedly, a loose rolled-up paper fell out along with the scroll.

“What is it?” asked Anko, holding her dirty hands before her.

“Looks like a letter,” said Takuma as he read the contents

“I’m tired; I’m leaving,” said Mara.

“Oh, thanks!” Anko knew that Mara had been living away from his natural habitat for several days and didn’t want to hold him back for any longer.

Mara released the jutsu and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“Ah… the snake fucked around with the jonin.” Takuma raised the letter and put it on the table with a snort. “Took a hostage at the camp—you can read about it later—it’s pretty funny.”

Speechless, Anko opened and closed her mouth wordlessly. She glanced at the empty spot where Mara stood a few moments later in irritation. Just when she thought she and Toridasu were over the hill too.

Takuma laid the storage seal scroll on the floor and released multiple stacks of A3-sized posters. The ones put up by the enemy were red-themed, so the team decided to switch the colour and go with blue-themed posters. The mental association would help them, after all.

“Good, these are good,” said Takuma.

Takuma wasn’t the greatest writer. The only writing he had done recently was writing bland case reports in the Police Force, which showed in his poster drafts. Daiki, who read them, commented that Takuma’s writing was too complex and long-winded. If Takuma wanted the message to spread, they needed the posters to be easily understandable because the posters were only the first step.

The moment the enemy was made aware of the posters, they would try to take them down—and the real goal was to spread the message around the city through word-of-mouth. For that to happen, the wording on the poster needed to be concise and easy to understand and memorise.

Daiki, being unsurprisingly well-read, turned Takuma’s writing into points that could be picked up quickly after a short read. Iori contributed with rough artwork depicting the occupying enemy in a bad light to attract the eyes of the populace.

Takuma looked up at Gaku. “When are we meeting the locals?”

The team wasn’t equipped to distribute the posters properly across the city. They weren’t familiar with the hotspots where most people would see the posters. Even if Gaku were to circle out locations on the city map for the team to follow, they wouldn’t know the specific areas in those locations where the posters would get the most eyes—something locals would be perfectly aware of.

“We leave in an hour,” said Gaku. “I have set up a meeting.”

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“Are you sure your identity is safe?” Anko asked him.

Gaku nodded. “It’s safe, don’t worry.”

Gaku was a well-known figure in Yu. As a retired shinobi, he was well-connected with the resistance elements in the city, enough that he was on the enemy’s watchlist. They were constantly on the lookout for him—which meant that he couldn’t be seen in the city without being hunted down by the enemy.

This was why he operated in the open as Jimii— Chinatsu’s pimp from the Land of Hot Water’s capital who had followed her back to Yu. He was shockingly adept at disguises and masquerading skills. After a few light cosmetic prosthetics, body language changes, and some voice modulation, Gaku was unrecognisable, allowing Jimii to operate in broad daylight.

It helped that Gaku and Jimii ran in different social circles.

Takuma stared at the posters as a nervousness bubbled up within him. The plan’s success level would dictate how the future would go for him. He needed it to succeed to inspire confidence in the team and Anko, allowing him to operate with greater freedom. Not to mention, his failure could mean Gaku trying to butt in and try to take control of the operation.

No matter their current situation, he was still a shinobi from an entirely different village to Team-9. This had to go great—no, perfectly—but his part in it was done.

All Takuma could do was leave the rest up to the team.

———

.

A single street light hung over a shopping centre loading zone, used by businesses to move merchandise and inventories. A group of five men looked tense as they huddled under the street light.

“Are you sure he’s coming?” The skinhead youngster who asked the question handed a hand-rolled cigarette to the middle-aged man leaning against the light pole.

Motohiro was a middle-aged man with a wide frame, big arms, and a beer belly. He owned a milling business in Yu and had a considerable number of people under him. He was rich, not enough to be counted among the city’s elite, but comfortable enough that he had no financial burdens.

Ever since the enemy had invaded and occupied the city, he had become a community leader who people looked up to. Motohiro had taken that responsibility very seriously and had been involved in the resistance efforts.

He scratched his full beard before taking a long drag from the cigarette. It did nothing to calm him down.

“He said he’ll be here,” said Motohiro. “Don’t worry.”

“Can we trust him? Didn’t he run away?”

“Why would he return to the city if he had already run away?” Motohiro took another drag before passing the cigarette back to the younger man. “There’s no harm in listening to him. If we don’t like it, we can always walk.”

“But he’s a shinobi… they’re dangerous.”

The rest of the group looked uneasy at the mention of shinobi. Even though they were part of the resistance group trying to oppose the enemy occupation, there wasn’t much they could do when the enemy was an army of shinobi with a stranglehold on the entire city. One shinobi could wipe out the five men gathered under the streetlight and they would be dead before they knew it.

“They’ll be dangerous regardless of what we decide,” said Motohiro.

To be honest, Motohiro didn’t think anything worthwhile would come from meeting with Gaku. Even before he had lost any connection to him, the shinobi wasn’t very social or involved with the resistance effort. He kept to himself and had only shown up randomly at gatherings whenever he felt like it, and even then, holed himself in a corner without contributing unless prompted.

Motohiro was surprised that Gaku had even contacted him. He thought he’d died and was buried in ditch somewhere, truth be told. But given that he was a shinobi, Motohiro gave the meeting a chance rather than outright ignoring the man who had been missing for longer than a month and hadn’t been of any help before.

Shinobi were not regular people, after all.

The faint sound of approaching footsteps that set the group on the edge. As the sound grew closer, Gaku’s figure stepped into the faint light. He was dressed in loose black and grey clothes and walked like he was on a late-night stroll.

“I hope you’ve more people than these kids,” Gaku said as he looked at the four youngsters.

“Maybe,” Motohiro replied. “Why do you need my men?”

“Your men, huh,” Gaku smiled as he reached into his clothes, which made people shift. He took a big piece of folded paper and flicked it towards the group. The folded paper flew in a curve but landed precisely into Motohiro’s hands.

He unfolded the paper to reveal the red pro-occupation posters everywhere around the city.

“What about it?” asked Motohiro.

“We want to respond to this false propaganda.” Gaku put a proper cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a zippo lighter.

“We? Who’s we?” asked Motohiro.

At that moment, a silent figure appeared beside Gaku, which freaked the group out. Some of the younger guys cursed and stumbled. Motohiro was only able to hide his gasp because of them. They had only heard one set of footsteps before and weren’t expecting someone else to be there with them. The figure was dressed in a dark robe and had a blank white mask with long eye slits covering his face. The figure had been standing in the shadow, standing just one step away from the light, hiding from them.

“W-Who are you?” asked Motohiro.

“I’m someone who shares an interest with you, Mr. Motohiro,” said the figure. It was a male voice, but the sound was gravelly with a hint of underlying warping. “I’m interested in ridding this city of unwanted intruders so it and its people can return to their lives before this… situation.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Motohiro stared at the figure. Other than his below-average height, the figure didn’t give anything away. There was this person before him that Motohiro knew nothing about it—and that scared him, stopping him from believing anything he said.

“My name’s… Tobi,” the figure introduced himself with a slight bow. “I’m not from Yu, but I’ve been sent here to help the city.”

“…Who sent you?”

“Who do you think?”

“T-The Daimyo?” one of the youngsters replied from behind Motohiro.

There were whispers among the youngsters with hints of hope. Even Motohiro felt something swell up in his heart. Had their nation finally sent help to free them from the misery they faced under enemy rule?

“Your country needs your help,” said Tobi. “I can help, but the people of the city are the only ones who can truly save it…. Mr. Motohiro, you’re in a unique position to start something revolutionary that will change the tide. You’re a strong voice among the people, and you have done a great job to keep them together—now’s the time to reveal the truth to them.”

Tobi took another folded piece of paper—blue, rather than the red of the enemy’s propaganda—and unfolded it as he walked towards Motohiro with silent footsteps. Motohiro couldn’t believe the man was walking to him—there wasn't even a sound. Shuddering, he realised that Tobi was a shinobi, or at least someone very dangerous.

“You call this city your home and it wants you to save it.” Tobi stopped before Motohiro and held up the poster under the streetlamp’s light. “With my help, you can save it.”